You’re being a nuisance. - Forsaken

You’re in the archive room, a dim space lined with dusty books on forgotten rituals and old spawn cult scriptures. Azure is seated at a heavy oak table, a single tome open before him, his glowering purple eyes fixed on the text. He’s trying to read—to find something, some clue, some old scripture that might explain why Two Time did it, why the ritual demanded his death, why faith turned to betrayal. His tentacles, four slick and restless appendages, are coiled quietly around the legs of his chair, still for now.

You won’t stop talking.

“—and I mean, it’s just so obvious, right? If the spawn cult was about rebirth, then killing you was probably part of the doctrine, maybe even a required step? Maybe Two Time wasn’t betraying you, he was just... following the script? Maybe he thought you’d come back—”

Azure’s eyes don’t lift from the page, but one tentacle twitches.

“Or maybe,” you continue, leaning against the shelf beside him, “it was about power. You said he was blinded by faith. Blind faith makes people do crazy things. He probably thought the resurrection would work, that you’d be granted a second life, and then you’d both be stronger together. It wasn’t malice, it was... devotion. Misguided devotion.”

Another tentacle uncoils slowly, sliding soundlessly across the floor toward you.

“And honestly,” you say, “your anger now—it’s consuming you. Maybe if you understood his perspective, you could find a way to forgive him. Maybe you could even go back to how things were before. He’s sorry, you know? He regrets it. That’s clear.”

Azure’s zipper-mouth remains sealed, but his jaw tightens beneath it. The tentacle that has reached your ankle begins to curl around it, cool and slippery.

“I think you miss him,” you say softly. “The partnership. The trust. You don’t really want to kill him. You want the past back. That’s why you’re here reading, looking for answers—you want to undo it, not just revenge him.”

His purple eyes finally lift from the book. They lock onto you, glowing in the gloom. There’s no expression on his face—just that fixed zipper and those burning eyes. The tentacle around your ankle tightens, not painfully, but firmly. Another tentacle slides up the back of your leg, under your clothes, cool and seeking.

You blink, your words faltering. “Azure...?”

He stands up slowly. The book remains open on the table, forgotten. The two other tentacles unwind from the chair and move toward you with silent purpose. You try to step back, but the one around your ankle holds you in place.

“You talk too much,” his voice comes out, distorted through the zipper-mouth—a low, static-rough growl. “You analyze. You speculate. You think you understand.”

The tentacle behind you slips higher, pressing against you intimately, cool and invasive. You gasp.

“You don’t understand,” Azure says, stepping closer. The tentacles move with him, now wrapping around your thighs, your waist. “You don’ know what it feels like to be stabbed by someone you loved. To die believing in a lie. To be pulled back by some... spectre... and remade into this.”

One tentacle pushes insistently past your clothing, entering you without preamble—cool, slick, stretching. You cry out, more surprise than pain.

Azure doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look pleased. He looks angry—deeply, profoundly angry. But his actions are methodical, controlled. The tentacles move in a rhythm, pushing and retreating, as if he’s trying to distract himself from the thoughts, from the words you poured into the room.

“You wanted to talk about forgiveness,” he murmurs, his voice close to your ear now. Another tentacle joins the first, filling you further, making you arch against him. “About going back. There is no going back. I am this now. He made me this.”

The tentacles work you steadily, their motion almost mechanical, driven by his bitterness. You’re pinned against the bookshelf, his body close but not touching you—only his tentacles are inside you, holding you, moving within you. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about silencing you. It’s about replacing your words with sensation, with a physical reminder that some things can’t be reasoned away.

You try to speak, but a third tentacle curls around your throat, not choking, but pressing—a warning.

“No more talking,” Azure says, his purple eyes fixed on yours. “Just feel this. Feel what it’s like to be... used. Changed. Remade for a purpose you don’t want.”

The rhythm increases, the tentacles moving deeper, more insistently. You can’t form words anymore—only breaths, sharp inhales, soft cries. His anger is palpable in every motion, in the tightness of his tentacles’ grip, in the coldness of their touch.

He leans closer, his jack-o’-lantern hat casting a sinister shadow over your face. “You wanted to understand? This is understanding. This is what betrayal feels like. It doesn’t end. It just... transforms.”